Miss Billy, Eleanor Hodgman Porter [motivational novels .txt] 📗
- Author: Eleanor Hodgman Porter
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“Why not take him at his word and telegraph? I fancy you won’t have to say ‘come’ but once before you see him. He doesn’t seem to be a bashful youth.”
“Hm-m; I might do that,” acquiesced William, slowly. “But wasn’t there somebody—a lawyer—going to write to me?” he finished, consulting the letter by his plate. “Yes,” he added, after a moment, “a Mr. Harding. Wonder if he’s any relation to Ned Harding. I used to know Ned at Harvard, and seems as if he came from Hampden Falls. We’ll soon see, at all events. Maybe I’ll hear tomorrow.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” nodded Bertram, as he rose from the table. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t do anything till I did hear.”
James Harding’s letter very promptly followed Billy’s, though it was not like Billy’s at all. It told something of Billy’s property, and mentioned that, according to Mrs. Neilson’s will, Billy would not come into control of her fortune until the age of twenty-one years was reached. It dwelt at some length upon the fact of Billy’s loneliness in the world, and expressed the hope that her father’s friend could find it in his heart to welcome the orphan into his home. It mentioned Ned, and the old college friendship, and it closed by saying that the writer, James Harding, was glad to renew his acquaintance with the good old Henshaw family that he had known long years ago; and that he hoped soon to hear from William Henshaw himself.
It was a good letter—but it was not well written. James Harding’s handwriting was not distinguished for its legibility, and his correspondents rejoiced that the most of his letters were dictated to his stenographer. In this case, however, he had elected to use the more personal pen; and it was because of this that William Henshaw, even after reading the letter, was still unaware of his mistake in supposing his namesake, Billy, to be a boy.
In the main the lawyer had referred to Billy by name, or as “the orphan,” or as that “poor, lonely child.” And whenever the more distinctive feminine “her” or “herself” had occurred, the carelessly formed letters had made them so much like “his” and “himself” that they carried no hint of the truth to a man who had not the slightest reason for thinking himself in the wrong. It was therefore still for the “boy,” Billy, that William Henshaw at once set about making a place in the home.
First he telegraphed the single word “Come” to Billy.
“I’ll set the poor lad’s heart at rest,” he said to Bertram. “I shall answer Harding’s letter more at length, of course. Naturally he wants to know something about me now before he sends Billy along; but there is no need for the boy to wait before he knows that I’ll take him. Of course he won’t come yet, till Harding hears from me.”
It was just here, however, that William Henshaw met with a surprise, for within twenty-four hours came Billy’s answer, and by telegraph.
“I’m coming tomorrow. Train due at five P. M.
“BILLY.”
William Henshaw did not know that in Hampden Falls Billy’s trunk had been packed for days. Billy was desperate. The house, even with the maid, and with the obliging neighbor and his wife who stayed there nights, was to Billy nothing but a dismal tomb. Lawyer Harding had fallen suddenly ill; she could not even tell him that the blessed telegram “Come” had arrived. Hence Billy, lonely, impulsive, and always used to pleasing herself, had taken matters in hand with a confident grasp, and had determined to wait no longer.
That it was a fearsomely unknown future to which she was so jauntily pledging herself did not trouble the girl in the least. Billy was romantic. To sally gaily forth with a pink in the buttonhole of her coat to find her father’s friend who was a “Billy” too, seemed to Billy Neilson not only delightful, but eminently sensible, and an excellent way out of her present homesick loneliness. So she bought the pink and her ticket, and impatiently awaited the time to start.
To the Beacon Street house, Billy’s cheerful telegram brought the direst consternation. Even Kate was hastily summoned to the family conclave that immediately resulted.
“There’s nothing—simply nothing that I can do,” she declared irritably, when she had heard the story. “Surely, you don’t expect ME to take the boy!”
“No, no, of course not,” sighed William. “But you see, I supposed I’d have time to—to get used to things, and to make arrangements; and this is so—so sudden! I hadn’t even answered Harding’s letter until to-day; and he hasn’t got that—much less replied to it.”
“But what could you expect after sending that idiotic telegram?” demanded the lady. “‘Come,’ indeed!”
“But that’s what Billy told me to do.”
“What if it was? Just because a foolish eighteen-year-old boy tells you to do something, must you, a supposedly sensible forty-year-old man obey?”
“I think it tickled Will’s romantic streak,” laughed Bertram. “It seemed so sort of alluring to send that one word ‘Come’ out into space, and watch what happened.”
“Well, he’s found out, certainly,” observed Cyril, with grim satisfaction.
“Oh, no; it hasn’t happened yet,” corrected Bertram, cheerfully. “It’s just going to happen. William’s got to put on the pink first, you know. That’s the talisman.”
William reddened.
“Bertram, don’t be foolish. I sha’n’t wear any pink. You must know that.”
“How’ll you find him, then?”
“Why, he’ll have one on; that’s enough,” settled William.
“Hm-m; maybe. Then he’ll have Spunk, too,” murmured Bertram, mischievously.
“Spunk!” cried Kate.
“Yes. He wrote that he hoped we wouldn’t mind his bringing Spunk with him.”
“Who’s Spunk?
“We don’t know.” Bertram’s lips twitched.
“You don’t know! What do you mean?”
“Well, Will thinks it’s a dog, and I believe Cyril is anticipating a monkey. I myself am backing it for a parrot.”
“Boys, what have you done!” groaned Kate, falling back in her chair. “What have you done!”
To William her words were like an electric shock stirring him to instant action. He sprang abruptly to his feet.
“Well, whatever we’ve done, we’ve done it,” he declared sternly; “and now we must do the rest—and do it well, too. He’s the son of my boyhood’s dearest friend, and he shall be made welcome. Now to business! Bertram, you said you’d take him in. Did you mean it?”
Bertram sobered instantly, and came erect in his chair. William did not often speak like this; but when he did—
“Yes, Will. He shall have the little bedroom at the end of the hall. I never used the room much, anyhow, and what few duds I have there shall be cleared out tomorrow.”
“Good! Now there are some other little details to arrange, then I’ll go downstairs and tell Pete and Dong Ling. And, please to understand, we’re going to make this lad welcome—welcome, I say!”
“Yes, sir,” said Bertram. Neither Kate nor Cyril spoke.
The Henshaw household was early astir on the day of Billy’s expected arrival, and preparations for the guest’s comfort were well under way before breakfast. The center of activity was in the little room at the end of the hall on the second floor; though, as Bertram said, the whole Strata felt the “upheaval.”
By breakfast time Bertram with the avowed intention of giving “the little chap half a show,” had the room cleared for action; and after that the whole house was called upon for contributions toward the room’s adornment. And most generously did most of the house respond. Even Dong Ling slippered upstairs and presented a weird Chinese banner which he said he was “velly much glad” to give. As to Pete—Pete was in his element. Pete loved boys. Had he not served them nearly all his life? Incidentally it may be mentioned that he did not care for girls.
Only Cyril held himself aloof. But that he was not oblivious of the proceedings below him was evidenced by the somber bass that floated down from his piano strings. Cyril always played according to the mood that was on him; and when Bertram heard this morning the rhythmic beats of mournfulness, he chuckled and said to William:
“That’s Chopin’s Funeral March. Evidently Cy thinks this is the death knell to all his hopes of future peace and happiness.”
“Dear me! I wish Cyril would take some interest,” grieved William.
“Oh, he takes interest all right,” laughed Bertram, meaningly. “He takes INTEREST!”
“I know, but—Bertram,” broke off the elder man, anxiously, from his perch on the stepladder, “would you put the rifle over this window, or the fishing-rod?”
“Why, I don’t think it makes much difference, so long as they’re somewhere,” answered Bertram. “And there are these Indian clubs and the swords to be disposed of, you know.”
“Yes; and it’s going to look fine; don’t you think?” exulted William. “And you know for the wall-space between the windows I’m going to bring down that case of mine, of spiders.”
Bertram raised his hands in mock surprise.
“Here—down here! You’re going to trust any of those precious treasures of yours down here!”
William frowned.
“Nonsense, Bertram, don’t be silly! They’ll be safe enough. Besides, they’re old, anyhow. I was on spiders years ago—when I was Billy’s age, in fact. I thought he’d like them here. You know boys always like such things.”
“Oh, ‘twasn’t Billy I was worrying about,” retorted Bertram. “It was you—and the spiders.”
“Not much you worry about me—or anything else,” replied William, good-humoredly. “There! how does that look?” he finished, as he carefully picked his way down the stepladder.
“Fine!—er—only rather warlike, maybe, with the guns and that riotous confusion of knives and scimiters over the chiffonier. But then, maybe you’re intending Billy for a soldier; eh?”
“Do you know? I AM getting interested in that boy,” beamed William, with some excitement. “What kind of things do you suppose he does like?”
“There’s no telling. Maybe he’s a sissy chap, and will howl at your guns and spiders. Perhaps he’ll prefer autumn leaves and worsted mottoes for decoration.”
“Not much he will,” contested the other. “No son of Walter Neilson’s could be a sissy. Neilson was the best half-back in ten years at Harvard, and he was always in for everything going that was worth while. ‘Autumn leaves and worsted mottoes’ indeed! Bah!”
“All right; but there’s still a dark horse in the case, you know. We mustn’t forget—Spunk.”
The elder man stirred uneasily.
“Bert, what do you suppose that creature is? You don’t think Cyril can be right, and that it’s a—monkey?”
“‘You never can tell,’” quoted Bertram, merrily. “Of course there ARE other things. If it were you, now, we’d only have to hunt up the special thing you happened to be collecting at the time, and that would be it: a snake, a lizard, a toad, or maybe a butterfly. You know you were always lugging those things home when you were his age.”
“Yes, I know,” sighed William. “But I can’t think it’s anything like that,” he finished, as he turned away.
There was very little done in the Beacon Street house that day but to “get ready for Billy.” In the kitchen Dong Ling cooked. Everywhere else, except in Cyril’s domain, Pete dusted and swept and “puttered” to his heart’s content. William did not go to the office at all that day, and Bertram did not touch his brushes. Only Cyril attended to his usual work: practising for a coming concert, and correcting the proofs of his new book, “Music in Russia.”
At ten minutes before five William, anxious-eyed and nervous, found himself at the North Station. Then,
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